


feel it in the future

by greel



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: M/M, high school Danny, mention of both wives but no cheating, mostly set during COVID, use of a gay slur not once but twice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:15:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28221525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greel/pseuds/greel
Summary: Danny tells Drew a story that is completely fine and absolutely regular and does not ruin Drew's life in the slightest.
Relationships: Danny Gonzalez/Drew Gooden
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	feel it in the future

Danny has this story that he tells you once. It goes like this: He’s been in a monogamous relationship since he was fourteen and he’s in love. He’s been in love the whole time. Not once, not ever, has it wavered. Not once, not ever, has he strayed.

He was propositioned by a guy at a speech and debate tournament. This would have been when Danny was fifteen, sixteen maybe. Kids from another school had a red Nalgene bottle full of vodka and were offering the exclusive experience of drinking out of said rancid bottle to kids they thought were funny, kids they wanted to be friends with, kids they thought were cool. Calling it an end-of-tournament tradition. (Danny never went back to this competition, unrelatedly, and cannot validate whether this was, in fact, a tradition.)

So in this freezing cold concrete stairwell, the kid that had invited him to partake was acting strange. The kid was wearing a too-small white button down, a Livestrong bracelet, and had a fat diamond stud in each of his earlobes. These are the things Danny remembers. Doesn’t know the guy’s name. The conversation went like this:

_You’re at Wheaton?_

I am.

_Are you a freshman?_

Oh. No. Just short. Ha ha.

_You’re not drinking much._

I don’t drink much.

...

Your ears are really pierced?

_Huh?_

Your studs are real?

_Shit, don’t call them studs. Faggot shit._

Huh. I don’t mean- Did it hurt?

_No._

Cool.

...

They look good, the- (ear-area hand gesturing)

_Thanks. Hey._

Hey?

_You have faggots at Wheaton?_

What?

_Like small, quiet. Pretty._

What?

_Somebody who just wants to be told what to do._

What are you talking about?

_All right. Sorry, man. Shop’s closed._

(And at this point, the kid twists the Nalgene closed, and Danny slips back to the banquet, and that is the end of the story.)

He says this: It was easy to say no. He didn’t even conceptualize it as a choice (“this opportunity” versus “Laura”). Just said no.

But eagle-eared listeners will note: He didn’t say no. The kid cut it off. Not Danny.

And this fact, this story, gets under your skin. Not right away. It’s a virus, and it takes its time.

You think about the questions you have.

_Was he hot?_

_Did you want to?_

Shit that you’ll never ask.

It’s a worse and worse itch at the back of your brain. Every time you see him. Every time you’re texting. Every time you upload.

And one day, you think about it when you’re kissing Amanda. A long kiss on the couch, both of you under the blankets, half a glass of red wine in your stomach. You just think, _small,_ _pretty_ , and you’re thinking about what that kid must have seen in him. And you’re thinking about how red his lips get. And you’re rock hard. Too hard for the situation at hand. Hard enough that you don’t want Amanda to find out, even if she’d take it as a compliment, but she’s moving her hand to the top of your sweatpants, pushing the heel of her palm over your head and she knows, and she’s smiling, and you’re seeing stars immediately, coming so hard that you lose your breath.

You do technically jerk off to the thought of his mouth.

You hit that milestone sometime in October, after having been told the story in January. You do not think about it that way; you tell yourself it’s just an objectively hot situation, like something you’d see in porn, and you don’t care who the players are.

But you do think about telling him what to do.

The pandemic is going to end, and you’re going to see him in real life again. That is going to happen. You can’t keep behaving like you’re at some kind of Sandals resort for the deranged, having a fantasy-fueled vacation from reality.

So you promise yourself you won’t cum if you’re thinking of him. Promise there will be no more choked-out orgasms in the middle of the night thinking about his tongue, his blush, his skin, his back, his eyes, his hands.

But the vaccine is so far away.

And you’re so far down the list.

(Was he hot?)

_(Did you want to?)_

You type a text to him. It says: _lol i’m remembering that story about the guy at the forensics competition_.

You delete “lol”.

You stare at the screen. You’re going to send it. You’re not. You are? You’re not.

A text bumps in before you can decide. It’s not from Danny, but you take it as a sign and delete your shit.

It’s not that you want to fuck him.

Like, unless you do.

-


End file.
